Just Can't Get Enough
by janiejanine
Summary: Anders and Hawke are going through a dry spell, until he just can't take it anymore. Rated M for smut.


There was a special hell, Karl told Anders once, worse than the Void, reserved for child molesters and people who talk at the theater. He'd scoffed then, but now he knew that Karl was right. The special hell existed, and Anders was in it.

It had been weeks since he and Hawke had last been alone together. He'd been putting in such long hours at the clinic that he sometimes slept there, and when he was able to come home, Hawke was usually running out the door to do Aveline a favor or meet with the Knight-Commander or solve yet another problem at that accident-prone mine of hers. On the rare occasion that they were home at the same time, they were too exhausted to do anything more than take their boots off and collapse into bed.

Tonight he'd rushed through the closing routine at the clinic, hoping that somehow he'd manage to catch her and have her to himself for a few hours, or, if they were lucky, all night. When he'd arrived home to discover that she'd gone to the Hanged Man and he'd missed her yet again, he'd thought he might actually go mad.

Now he found himself in his usual spot at Varric's table, trying and failing to concentrate on his cards. Acting normal when all he wanted to do was sweep everything off the table, lay her down, and ravish her until neither of them could move anymore was a unique brand of torture.

Hawke frowned at her cards, faint lines appearing on her forehead, and he fought the urge to reach up and smooth them away. She rose and leaned across the table to toss her stake into the pot, giving him a perfect view of her rounded backside.

He jumped when he felt a sharp elbow jab into his ribs.

"Focus. Your eyes are glazing over," Aveline muttered.

He looked up. Everyone was staring at him. Was it his turn? It must be. He had no idea what cards he was holding, so he just set them down and said "I'm out."

Even though it was after sundown, the summer heat still stuck, and the humidity made Hawke's shirt cling to the curve of her breasts. The laces at the top were loose, allowing tantalizing glimpses of cleavage, and every once in a while a rivulet of sweat ran down her chest and vanished into the cleft. He resented that shirt. The only thing that should be covering such bounty was his tongue. It was an _injustice_.

"Maker's mercy," he sighed quietly, dropping his forehead into his hand. He was so pent up, she could probably haul a deer up on the table and gut it in front of him and he'd find it intensely erotic.

Every time she moved, he caught a whiff of her violet-scented Orlesian soap. She must have taken a bath earlier. If only he'd been there; he could have joined her. Rubbed the knots out of her shoulders. Lathered her up. Run his hands over her slippery skin. He wanted to bury his face in her hair, to lick every inch of her and taste the salt of her sweat, to kiss her crooked smile and clever fingers and everything in between.

Hawke took a too-enthusiastic drink and a drop of ale trickled down her chin. She caught the droplet with the tip of one finger and sucked it into her mouth.

That did it.

He stood up and grabbed her arm. "Excuse us," he said.

Isabela's room was right across the hall. She wouldn't mind donating it for such a worthy cause, he was sure. Pulling Hawke behind him, he kicked the door shut with his heel, swept her into his arms, and crushed his mouth to hers. He kissed her with a hunger born of weeks of deprivation, and when his tongue brushed her lips, she opened to him with an appreciative gasp.

"I missed you," he murmured between kisses.

"Mmmph," she replied, reaching up to tangle her fingers in his hair.

He slid his hands under her shirt and paused, fingers splayed over her ribs. It felt so good just to _touch_ her again, bare skin to bare skin. Then she sighed, a little exhalation of breath that promised untold delights. Savoring the moment would have to wait.

"I missed your lips," he continued, moving his hands upward. "And your breasts." He lifted her shirt over her head, then pulled her tighter against him, his arousal pressing against the soft skin of her belly. He was so hard he thought he just might explode.

He undid her trousers with the ease of long practice, loosening them enough to slip his hand inside. When his questing fingers encountered her sex, he couldn't hold back a low groan of approval. "I missed this, most of all," he whispered into her ear. "So wet. You're always wet for me, aren't you?"

"Always," she breathed, and then her fingers were working at his coat buckles, sliding it off his shoulders and letting it fall to the floor.

He fisted his hand in her hair and pulled her head back, trailing open-mouthed kisses down her neck, pausing here and there to bite, soothing the marks with his tongue. "I was in _torment_. I couldn't wait. And now I'm going to make you _beg_."

She pulled him in and kissed him, moaning against his mouth as she pulled at his laces. She wrapped her fingers around his shaft and stroked, and his vision whited out for a moment. He could feel the calluses on her hands, those beautiful, dexterous hands that were strong enough to wield a dagger and nimble enough to charm a lock. She ran her thumb over the tip and it felt _amazing_ and-

_No, no, no_. He was _not_ going to spend himself in her hand, no matter how incredible it felt, not after all this. He caught her wrists and unceremoniously pushed her down onto the bed.

He drew his hands over her shoulders, her breasts, her sides, her hips, letting the tiniest of electric shocks tingle on her skin. Nudging her knees apart, he pressed a row of kisses from her breastbone to her navel and lower, until he lay between her legs, ready to spread her open and taste her. She was lovely, pale pink like the blush on a peach, and he closed his eyes and breathed her in, the aroma of sweet musk and salt and flowers that meant _Hawke_.

"Don't move," he said, and hooked one arm around her thigh and the other over her torso, making sure she wasn't going anywhere.

He forced himself to wait. He'd been dying for her touch all night; now it was her turn. She tried to buck her hips, but he held her firmly in place.

"Please," she whispered.

"Beg," he growled. He mouthed the inside of her thigh, close enough to her sex to make her whine.

"Oh, fuck, please, I need...I need..._ohhh_." Her words trailed off into moans as his tongue rasped over her slit, licking bottom to top, agonizingly slow. "Yes, _there_."

"I know you can do better than that." He slid one long finger deep into her sheath, crooking it forward to brush against the place that he knew drove her wild, moving in rhythm with the deliberate strokes of his tongue, over and over. It took everything he had to maintain control.

He ground his hips into the mattress. He'd lost any concept of time the moment he'd knelt between her legs, and he didn't know how much more of this he could take, the taste of her, the sounds she made just for him. Was it possible to die of lust? If so, there were worse ways to go.

Hawke let out a groan of frustration. "I don't care, I don't care, please, Anders, just _fuck me_."

Her movements were frantic, pressing her mound against his tongue, hands clutching the sheets. She was close. He gave one last long lick and raised his head. The loss of pressure made her give a low noise of distress that turned into a hum of anticipation as he slid upwards, cock poised at her entrance. He paused to drink in the sight of her stretched out beneath him, at his mercy, trembling with want and clutching his shoulders with such desperate _need_ it all but scorched his skin.

He groaned as he hilted himself in her, finally, lost in sweet wet heat. His mouth covered hers, to muffle her moans, or maybe his own. She wrapped her legs around him, her nails raking down his sides as her hips rolled against his. His thrusts kept pace with her and the world was only her and her voice in his ear, _yes, more, deeper, harder_.

The urgent tension was too much, too much, and he knew he wasn't going to last. Too desperate to bother with finesse, he reached between them and rubbed with slick fingers.

"Look at me, sweetheart," he whispered. "Look at me." Her eyes met his, dark with arousal and a little unfocused.

As she tightened her legs around his waist, he reached for her hand and clung to it like a lifeline. She convulsed around him, gripping him tight, and finally he came, sensation like a whip crack fading into smaller waves of pleasure.

He stayed where he was as long as he could, riding out the aftershocks, before slipping from her and rolling to the side. They both lay still as their breathing slowly returned to normal. His hand drifted over the familiar curve of her hip, tracing old scars. He knew every mark and line of her body like he knew his own - maybe even better - but he couldn't imagine them ever losing their novelty.

After a few minutes of almost-silence, Hawke giggled.

"What's funny?" he asked.

"Did you see the look on Sebastian's face?"

Anders couldn't suppress a chuckle. "Was he scandalized?"

"Everyone looked so surprised when you pulled me out of there. I think I saw Varric reaching for his notebook." Hawke snorted with laughter. "Oh, Maker, we're in Isabela's bed."

"I think she'll understand."

"Yes, but she'll want to know all the details. 'Did he spice your shimmy?'" She waggled her eyebrows in a credible imitation of her favorite pirate.

His chuckle turned into an undignified choke. He caught her eye and that set her off again, both of them laughing until they collapsed against the headboard, breathless.

He was wrung out. As he gazed at Hawke, sprawled unselfconsciously naked across the bed, eyes bright with amusement, he felt better than he had in weeks. The path of his life was littered with potholes, but in this one respect, the one that counted, he was the luckiest bastard in Thedas. Most nights, that was enough.

The atmosphere in Varric's suite was pointedly casual when they made their return.

Varric gave a discreet cough. "You might want to fix your hair, there, Blondie."

"Hawke!" Isabela pounced, wearing her biggest, wickedest grin. "Did he-"

"Yes."

Isabela looked taken aback. "Yes, what?"

"Yes, he shanked my Jory, floated my frigate, praised my Maker, and explored my Deep Roads. And," Hawke leaned in, the corners of her mouth curling up, "he satisfied _every_ demand of my Qun."

Isabela sat back, disappointed. Then she brightened. "But did you master his taint?"

"Wouldn't you like to know? Deal me in." Hawke settled herself back in her chair.

Now that Anders could think clearly again, he did feel a bit abashed that he'd made their encounter so public. He leaned over and spoke quietly into Hawke's ear. "I'm sorry for being so obvious."

"Hmm?" she replied, already focused on the cards in her hand. "Oh, that's all right. It was all part of my cunning plan."

"_Your_ plan?"

"You think I don't know how to get you riled up by now?"

"Huh," he said, dumbfounded.

A little grin tugged at her lips. "You are too easy."

"Minx. Just wait until we get home."


End file.
